


tight spaces, heart races

by interstellars



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Semi-Public Sex, Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-10
Updated: 2015-01-10
Packaged: 2018-03-06 23:10:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3151808
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/interstellars/pseuds/interstellars
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's the weeks of push and pull between Dorian and Arlen Lavellan, but then there's the glorious, if not overpowering, release and culmination.</p>
            </blockquote>





	tight spaces, heart races

**Author's Note:**

> first work for a ship that has entirely ruined me and i haven't even finished the game yet, hah! enjoy <3
> 
>  
> 
> [this is the babe, btw](http://media.tumblr.com/7a7507b3ce8c6ff2dc4da5ba73500adb/tumblr_inline_nh2o0nInrZ1t1unx6.png)

They have talked.

Cassandra might look at them from the corner of her eye with a sneer and a raised eyebrow, question why they always seem to be insulting one another, and perhaps try and turn her back when it seems like the jab might have gone too deep. But these little spats – “Inquisitor, is it? Maker, you’ve quite the title now. Makes you all big and mighty.” – have become so commonplace that it feels strange when they’re simply making nice with each other.

“So… Tevinter?”

“Yes, Tevinter. Evil blood mages, slaves, the whole bit.”

Arlen had fired back when it came to asking about his origins.

“The Dalish, hm? Tell me about that.”

“I ran through the forest with wolf’s blood smeared on my cheeks. Not much to tell.”

Dorian Pavus was the altus from Tevinter, Arlen Lavellan the Dalish hunter from the Free Marches. Cassandra had quite the Inquisition to sell to allies.

After Haven, after the memorial had been placed, and after Skyhold began to fall into routine, the depth of their conversations had grown to such an extent that even Arlen wasn’t sure what they were anymore. He found himself wandering Skyhold at night, hearing echoes from the tavern, and eventually finding himself in the library with the mage. Most nights it was innocent half-flirtations, Dorian throwing around the words “strapping” and “delightful.” Alone, his words didn’t have effect. They were things Arlen heard often growing up in the alienage in Val Royeaux. Coupled with the slight upturn of his lips, or the way he can tell that Dorian has wandering eyes, it sends heat creeping up his spine.

It was a game, certainly. More often than not Arlen indulged the other man and participated, whether it be with his long, calloused fingers grazing his shoulder as he passes in the library or a prolonged look from across the bar while the bard sang. The delight, and vague sense of surprise, it seemed to bring Dorian intrigued him to an almost dangerous degree.

 _Keeper would be ashamed_ , Arlen thought one morning, and before the thought was even over there was a smirk on his lips. Keeper didn’t know that he had once had her First on his naming day by the riverbank.

He had already asked the Creators for forgiveness, halfheartedly.

But something about this was different. It wasn’t the quick, mostly infrequent, encounters Arlen was used to. This was weeks upon weeks of smirks, low sighs, and obvious innuendo. It grew underneath his skin until even seeing the mage had him conditioned to feel warm underneath his clothes, for his mouth to suddenly run dry.

No reprieve, no culmination. They would talk, but neither would act.

A fortnight before Halamshiral in a keep somewhere in the crevices of Crestwood, the stalemate breaks gloriously.

The weary calls of _Lavellan_ and _Inquisitor_ float from the main area of the keep, where the rest of the soldiers have settled with their tents and their mead (something Bull brought up, Creators know what it contains). They don’t _need_ him, Arlen knows, because if they did one of them would come running up the stairs to his room, flying through the door and straight to his face. He didn’t particularly mind that. He minded that it happened more often than he liked.

But even the drunken calls for him ebb away as the stars grow brighter. He had been fiddling with the grips of his daggers, and now was idly looking over plans at the makeshift desk in the corner of the room. Something Cullen had sent to him about the Venatori; he pushed them aside and got up. Right now he wasn’t particularly interested. Tomorrow would see another go at trying to lead this mass force he had been thrust at the head of.

Arlen meets eyes with him when he’s pushing open the door.

Dorian smiles, looks down where Arlen had been sitting, and tuts. “You? Cooped up in here when the rest of us have been drinking? And merry-making? There are just a few moments when you don’t have to take this too seriously.”

He says that they’ve been drinking, but Dorian looks more level headed and strong in his words.

“You’re missing the telltale sign of rosy cheeks,” Arlen says, taking measured steps towards him. He squints his eyes, as if trying to figure him out. “Your words seem to come out fine. Is Bull having your share?”

“He is, actually. I was feeling generous.”

“Perish the thought.”

That makes Dorian laugh with enough force that he has to tilt his head back, hands coming up to his hips as if to steady himself. “ _You_ haven’t witnessed how generous I actually can be yet.” With that, Dorian shuts the door with a pronounced thud, and proceeds to examine the area as he walks further inside.

They stay in silence while Dorian begins touching his fingers to Arlen’s belongings. He teases the flesh of his palm with the sharp bite of one of his daggers, leafs through his paperwork-

“Is there something you need, Dorian?” The territorial instinct he learned in the alienage rears its ugly head, and it has Dorian snapping his head up to make eye contact. When he doesn’t speak, Arlen attempts to soften the blow by releasing the tension in his shoulders and coming a step closer. “There are things I’ve to do before sunrise.”

“I can name a few, if you’d like.” The comment drips with insinuation, but Arlen notes the prick of real animosity behind his words. He begins dancing around Arlen again, looking at the keepsakes from his clan next to Cullen’s papers. _Creator’s_ , Arlen curses to himself. The other man isn’t looking at him. He doesn’t know what to say.

But Dorian seems to have had his fill of looking at Arlen’s belongings, and when he looks up this time it’s with a grin. “It’s actually incredibly dull out there. I was perhaps waiting for one of your soldiers to have an unfortunate sword incident I can tell Cullen about later, but I’ve come to you disappointed.”

“And you come to me?”

“Naturally. At least you know how to entertain me, Lavellan. You incite it so often.”

“I thought we were past calling me “Lavellan,” Pavus.”

“Inquisitor, then? Serah?” When Dorian had gotten so close to him, Arlen wasn’t sure, but now he couldn’t ignore the smell of kindling and strong liquor. “Messere… Your worship. Ari, perhaps. It’s your pick.”

He smells delightful: of musk, too, underneath the smells from the keep. Oils, even. Arlen doesn’t respond even with the use of his most hated nickname, too enraptured in the sudden attack on his senses. He can barely see over Dorian’s broad shoulders, for all that he’s just as tall as him.

“By all means stay, if you’re so inclined.” Arlen motions with both hands around the room. His arms return to hang at their sides, but he has the urge to grip Dorian’s shoulders instead. He doesn’t act that far, but finds that instead his hands are grabbing Dorian’s wrists and pulling him closer, pulling them chest to chest until he leans forward and catches his lips.

His head swims, the heady blend of his impulsiveness and _Dorian_ – who forces his wrists out of Arlen’s grasp to instead intertwine their fingers – making for the strangest sensation in the pit of his stomach. Their lips don’t quite match up the first time, and Arlen pulls away, only to have Dorian roughly tug on his hands to bring them back together. The mage is the one to grunt when their lips crash together again.

Arlen enthusiastically chases him, would be pulling him onto the bed if his bed weren’t a cot, and if his room was more private. But he still kisses Dorian like a Chantry sister might chase holy water. It’s desperate enough that Arlen sighs upon the next joining of their lips, fingers locking in place where they lay between Dorian’s.

The mage stops moving, keeps his lips to Arlen’s while he smirks, and pulls away despite the two tugs on his right hand.

“Leave now and I can’t promise that I’ll be quite as happy to see you when we arrive at Skyhold,” Arlen warns, lust clearly permeating his voice. He almost sounds like he’s growling.

It gives Dorian pause and a reason to look back at him. It’s even enough for him to grab the side of Arlen’s face and tilt his head so he can press a kiss to his jawline. As he keeps his hand there, Arlen glares.

“Darling, there is nothing more I would like than to stay here and lay on that cold floor. But let’s not give the soldiers a reason to think something is happening. I could be accused of stealing your soul.”

Dorian hasn’t stolen it; he has it wrapped around his finger, and he keeps tugging on it with every flirtation. Arlen wants to bring him right back.

The wet, pink tip of Dorian’s tongue is minutely running over one of the veins on Arlen’s neck. It feels good, too good, and if he could Arlen would lock that door and keep the mage with him until the smell of him wouldn’t wash off for weeks. He tries to convey this with eager hands moving to Dorian’s waist, fingernails digging into the leather detailing on his tunic. “Don’t they – ah – already think that? You’re completely deceitful.” Arlen’s breaths are punctuated by the sharpness of teeth against giving skin, and then tongue to sooth it over. “You are _marking_ me, Creators-“

A hum vibrates against his throat. With his neck still being held exposed Arlen can’t retaliate like he’d like to, and is left to tugging Dorian’s tunic free from his pants and moving his hands underneath his shirt to grasp at his sides. And, despite himself, he grunts quietly at the ceiling as Dorian peppers kisses onto the red, angry mark he’s made.

“Do you need evidence of this happening?”

“No, but that looks beautiful on your neck.”

Arlen raises a hand to grab Dorian’s wrist and force it away from holding his jawline up. Their lips crash together and Arlen kisses him roughly, as if to wound for the transgression he just committed. But Dorian takes it willingly, shamelessly opening his mouth when Arlen’s teeth nip his lower lip. He puts his hands around Arlen’s shoulders, tangles one hand in his hair, let’s Arlen slide his tongue over his own, and still has the gall to lowly whine against Arlen’s mouth when he tries to pull away.

Their heavy breathing echoes in the small space. Arlen is painfully aware of the thrumming of his pulse, the drum of his heart. He contemplates the fuller look the mage’s lips have adopted due to his ferocity, and the noticeable flush of his cheeks. Tearing himself away completely isn’t as easy as he had tricked himself into thinking, but when Arlen steps back he sees Dorian smirk at him, and it makes it that much more difficult.

“You have more willpower than I do.”

“Only the desire to see you when you’ve been thoroughly kissed.”

Arlen leaves Dorian without words. He wants to add something else ( _I’d like to see you thoroughly fucked, too. You are gorgeous, gorgeous, gorgeous_ ) but refrains and leans against the stone wall. “Tomorrow we’ve a message to deliver,” he says, lips feeling loose and near swollen. “I will see you at sunrise.”

He can almost feel the mark on his neck blooming purple as Dorian takes his leave. “Then do try and sleep. You won’t be able to blame it on me if you don’t.”

The door shuts behind him, and Arlen presses the fingers of his right hand to the bruise Dorian left him with.

That alone stirs fire in his spine.

  
**\------**

  
They endure a week more in Crestwood, meandering in the newly sunlit plains.

Arlen had seen little of Dorian for that week, and he preferred it that way. Walking for so many hours left time for thinking, and the thoughts of the mage that frequently passed his mind were on such a spectrum that they frightened him. A twist in his gut told him he shouldn’t be thinking of Dorian, ever gently, kissing him sweetly as they fell asleep, and not a moment later think of what his face looks like in the throes of passion.

Dorian keeps his distance. Somehow, there’s a mutual understanding.

Skyhold was buzzing with activity when they returned. Cassandra, ever diligent, had maps upon maps stacked up in her quarters, detailing points of interest they should visit, where their troops were, and even where she thought they should go next. “Halamshiral, of course, comes first. That is upon Leliana and Josephine’s insistence,” she had said before returning to her tireless work. If he had been in the right state of mind, perhaps he would have told her she worked too much. It wasn’t good for her health, he’d say. He had a searing doubt that she would delight in him speaking salaciously of Dorian.

As Arlen moves through Skyhold, always flanked by someone or other who has been waiting for his return, he can feel the other man’s eyes. When he catches them they’re often soft, not what he would imagine, and looking at him as if he’s star crossed. As if they’re lovers.

Did Arlen look like that, too, when he saw Dorian walking across the courtyard? Or when he was choosing a book in the library to study?

Things settle after a few days. The soldiers return to their autonomy, practicing with Cullen at daybreak. Iron Bull and Varric host games of Wicked Grace in the tavern in the evenings. Tonight was no exception. As Arlen walks up the staircase to the library (where else would he go, blast him and his selfishness) he can hear the faint yells that indicate someone has lost, and that the same someone is perhaps going to lose an article of clothing.

His own footsteps echo up the tower, and before he has even made it halfway up the staircase he hears who he was hoping to see from above.

“No Wicked Grace tonight? How surprising.”

Dorian is sitting at one of the tables near his alcove when Arlen appears in the library, glancing around quickly to see if they are, indeed, alone. It appears so, as even the ravens are above them without so much as a ruffling of feathers; perfectly content in their solitude.

The genuine smile Dorian gives him makes his mouth go dry when he tries to speak. “The advisors are playing tonight, I’ve heard. I’d rather keep my coin.”

“Smart move. Now, come, sit down with me. I would appreciate the company.”

So Arlen does, taking up a chair next to him and sitting with his elbows on the tabletop. There are books strewn across in front of them. Some he can make out as being about the Imperium, and others bear the signs of Orlais and Val Royeaux. “Studying, are you?” he asks, pulling one of the books towards him with his finger.

“Yes, actually. A lot has changed in Orlais since I last cared to check. Celene has made… Interesting policies. You should read some. It might help even out that you’re an elf and a once declared heretic at the Winter Palace.”

“I know more of Orlesian politics than I would care to already,” Arlen replies, and he can already feel Dorian asking how that could be possible when he’s spent his live in seclusion from humans. “I was born in the alienage. I still have my contacts.”

“I thought the clan was your home.”

“The clan _is_ home.”

“Then I suppose you may find allies there after all.”

“Not as many as you would think.”

Dorian abandons his book and turns in his chair so he’s facing him. He studies his face, and Arlen can feel his eyes tracing over the bridge of his nose, taking in the curves of his lips, and the angles of his jawline. Dorian’s features are almost… soft, as if in subtle reverence. It makes Arlen squirm in his seat, being so closely examined. Dorian leans his elbow on the arm of the chair and holds his head up with his palm. “Don’t look so threatened. I’m not asking anything of you,” Dorian starts, but the growing tenderness in his voice is hard to conceal. “I wouldn’t. Maker, your face has gone red. How lovely.”

Indeed he can feel the growing heat in his face. Being spoken to in the light, enchanting way Dorian is speaking to him now is something he hasn’t experienced often. If ever, now that he can clearly see that Dorian still has not taken his eyes off of him and seems intent on making the blush spread from cheeks to neck and chest. “Clearly you think your magic extends farther than what comes out of your staff.” A retort lacking in any force behind the words. Arlen feels like he’s shrinking before the mage.

“Ah! But it does. Didn’t you know?” Dorian pushes out of the chair and walks past Arlen to look out the small window in the alcove. By now they must be on their second round of cards, Varric is three mugs into a barrel of ale and Josephine three silvers into Wicked Grace. From the window they must look terribly small, unimportant.

The two stay silent for a few heavily measured seconds before Arlen, too, gets out of the chair and stands behind Dorian with his arms crossed, fingers digging into the hollow of his arms. “You’re acting strange,” he says abruptly, and Dorian laughs.

“Is it as strange to you as it is to me?” Dorian turns away from the window and blocks it off completely with his body. There is nowhere else to look, nowhere else to divert his eyes. Arlen is forced to look at the other man and see how the lines in his forehead are dissolving, how he’s _still_ got that blasted look in his eyes-

“You walked away.”

“You’ve been playing games for _weeks_.”

The faint bruise on Arlen’s neck throbs for the first time since it was given to him. It’s barely visible now, nothing more than a ruddy pink that’s beginning to look like the rest of his skin, but it pulses hot and furious. Dorian tilts his head to the side as if thinking, but Arlen knows he isn’t. There’s no knit between his eyebrows, no scratching at his thigh or cheek as if he’s trying to conjure up the right thoughts.

Dorian closes the distance between them and brings his hand up to gently take Arlen’s chin in his grasp. “I have more respect for you than you think.” Arlen remains like stone, not moving even to dip his chin further into Dorian’s touch. “Everyone does, but…” Dorian’s eyes furrow now, as he lets go of Arlen’s face but remains close, “It’s different.”

The swelling of the elf’s chest becomes a feeling that he can’t handle, and he lets it take control of him as he grasps Dorian’s shoulders and brings their lips to touch. Close mouthed, unmoving, barely there. Arlen pulls away and is shocked to find that he’s mirroring the same expression Dorian had given him. Experience tells him that this moment of affection is temporary, that Dorian isn’t going to put his hands on his waist, let his fingers press lovingly into his hipbones, and pull him closer even though there is no more distance to bridge.

But he does, and when he feels their chests against each other Arlen takes his lips again, this time kissing him like he means it. The heady mix of emotions makes him bold enough to twine his fingers in Dorian’s hair, stroking the back of his head with his thumb, bringing his mouth just off center enough to kiss at the corner of Dorian’s mouth. Dorian’s fingers knead his skin underneath his clothing for a short second before they take purpose and push Arlen back against the wall between bookcase and window.

Arlen tips his head back against the stone to pull away. His chest heaves with every intake of breath, and it takes a moment to find his words. “Please,” he breathes harshly, fingers tightening on Dorian’s hair, “Do not walk away this time, unless you want me very upset with you.”

Searching lips seal back onto his. They press and move quickly, sloppy in the need to show just how much his companion doesn’t want to leave. His fingers have moved to Arlen’s thighs, kneading them before gently making more room between them to situate his hips more comfortably. Their touches are still sweet, with Dorian taking great care to stroke rather than grab, to feel rather than take. Arlen follows his motions into this new territory they’ve created, where for the first time in a long while Arlen is letting his emotions manifest themselves as he feels them.

So much so that Arlen sighs when Dorian moves from his kiss swollen lips to his jawline, giving tender kisses down to the lines of his neck. One right on the tendon, one over his adam’s apple, two, lovingly, near his sternum. Arlen’s grip on Dorian’s body is like steel, holding the other man to him.

“Ah,” Arlen half gasps and half grunts at the hint of teeth that make themselves known in the hollow of his neck. Dorian is sucking a vicious kiss there, biting at the skin once he knows it’s red and tender. “Lethallin, that-“

“I quite like the way that sounds, coming from you.”

The endearment wasn’t meant for Dorian’s ears, and yet it’s out in the open and floating between them. Arlen is almost surprised that he knows what it means, but remembers that he spends his days pouring over books. _What if he’s read about the language? He knows what that means, knows what I mean when I say it._

Arlen waits. He can feel himself stiffening with each passing beat, even when Dorian pushes away at his scarf and makes it tumble to the ground so he can begin untying the laces at the front of his tunic. He expects him to hurry, but the quickening of his hands never comes. He lingers, feeling each new bit of Arlen’s flesh with appreciation. His lips follow suit, and soon he has to bend his neck for his lips to follow his fingers.

He sighs again, but it’s restrained. Dorian looks up, brow furrowing and knitting between his eyes. “Do you…”

“No.”

The concern deepens in Dorian’s face. “You can tell me if I’ve done something... wrong.”

“You haven’t.” Hands come up to his face, on each side of his cheeks. Caressing, gentle. Arlen leans into the touch, and he can feel exactly where Dorian holds his staff and where its pressed calluses into his palms. “Remember? You have to stay.”

“There’s no other place I’d rather be; you’re failing to understand this.” And the kisses continue until the threads of his tunic threaten to dissolve to the floor. Dorian’s hands, warm and smooth, run up his sides, dragging the fabric up with them. “I want to be here, with you. What more do I have to do to prove it to you?” He’s murmuring now, as if he’s saying a prayer to himself. Arlen lifts his arms up as Dorian pushes the tunic up over his shoulders, and over his head. There’s a moment where it catches on the tip of his ear, and Dorian dissolves into a momentary fit of tiny laughs. Momentary, but just infectious enough for Arlen to turn crimson.

The mage leans back just enough to try and get his own coat off himself, but Arlen eases his hands away and instead tugs the leather straps holding the garment to his torso away, tracing his skin as he lets it fall to the ground.

Dorian is marvelous, even in the low light coming from sparse candles and moonlight. They’re almost level with each other, and he can see Dorian is looking intently at his face, yet Arlen is taking in the other man’s torso. Lean, yet more muscular than he is. Arlen has always used his height to feel like he’s more when he has dealt with humans, but now it feels like they’re equals.

Neither can talk. Arlen wants to touch as much of Dorian as he can, and Dorian tries the very same.

His hands search and rake over his chest, pressing where the muscle feels harder, ghosting over his nipples and watching the quiet shudder he gives. Arlen even brings them to his neck, fingers wrapping around it to press against the start of his spine. Dorian groans, tilts his head back against it.

“Lethallin,” Arlen says, near breathless with the sudden burst of hot sensation that brings to his stomach.

“Say that again.” Dorian gently moves his hands to take Arlen’s wrists, to guide him so his back is pressed against his chest and his front is facing the stone wall. Suddenly there’s so much of Dorian against him so quickly, and he has to close his eyes against the intensity.

“Lethallin, Dorian, bastard-“ Despite himself, and despite that Dorian has done nothing other than raise his right hand to the stone wall and intertwine their fingers, Arlen moans lowly, the sound crawling out from his throat. Dorian’s free hand is steadily working at the front of his trousers. Arlen lowers his own hand to help, their fingers bumping into each other clumsily.

Suddenly it’s so much, and Arlen’s body feels like a tea kettle that is screaming, hissing steam into the cold air. Dorian’s cheek is pressing against his ear, each hot exhale hitting his cheek imbued with fervent desire. It’s different from when they were in Crestwood. That had been the culmination of weeks of teasing and innuendo. This was something that would have made Arlen scared just a few years ago. The sweetness they’ve displayed to each other is not without implications.

Dorian is running his hand up his side, his other hand tightening around Arlen’s fingers. Finally, _finally_ , they’ve gotten his trousers unlaced enough to drag them down a bit to reveal his skin to the chill of the air. Arlen hisses, eyes falling shut and head tipping back. His head gets out of alignment with the rest of him for the beats in between Dorian shifting his hips against Arlen’s ass and kissing his earlobe, but he comes together when he feels strong, yet uncertain fingers wrap around his cock. Everything inside him sings.

Arlen can tell Dorian is gazing down, watching as he drags his own hand down and up, feeling the shudder Arlen gives when he does it again. He’s muttering “ _Maker, Arlen, look at you_ ,” once as he squeezes his fingers tightly and again as he quickens the pace of his hand, twisting his wrist near the head, nearly gasping at the same time Arlen does.

Despite their surroundings, despite that he’s effectively pressed against a wall in the library with Dorian gloriously surrounding him with his chest, his arms, everything, his heart swells to a dangerous degree. He moans into the still air when Dorian palms him hard, dragging his hand up and his skin balancing between too dry and slick, and in the same moment feels something in his chest press against his bones.

“Creators, oh, don’t leave me tonight, stay in my quarters – _fuck_ – please just don’t leave, lethallin-“

He’s near babbling, now, eyes shut and voice growling with the heat that’s making sweat bead on his chest. But his circuits are on fire, everything pointed and multiplied and made to make him feel as if he were about to die. Made to make him feel like he’ll never breathe if Dorian isn’t pressed against his back, with his lips mouthing his neck and his hand on his cock.

“Anything, _anything_ , you want,” Dorian replies, and with all the vicious intent Arlen can pretend he’s doing it with, Dorian shallowly presses his hips forward once against Arlen’s ass, watching as he arches his back involuntarily into his hips. And he does it again, tipping hips forward to find the friction he needs, too.

A delicious groan tears itself away from Dorian’s throat as he strikes up a rhythm with his hips, riding along the seams of his trousers. Teeth find the tender skin on Arlen’s neck and Arlen moans again, louder this time, when they sink in to make an indent above where the first mark had been. He writhes against Dorian and the wall both, alternating between wanting to push into Dorian’s hand or push back against his cock, feeling the insistent head pressing between his thighs through the fabric of his pants.

It’s too much; Arlen doesn’t know whether to close his eyes or open them, to sigh or to groan, to keep thinking that Dorian means _so much_ , or to think that Dorian feels better than most things he knows.

He’s so tightly wound, so quickly, that he has to fight back his shout when Dorian minutely squeezes his fingers, dragging them up to the tip. Soon he’ll lose his control, tighten his grip on Dorian’s hand and push into his fingers, wonder when he’ll stop feeling like he’s on the edge of a fucking mountain-

-and in its intensity, it’s over almost just as it has begun. Arlen stiffens against the wall, fingers clutching dangerously to Dorian’s as he comes over his hand, mouth open and working around a soundless vowel. His comedown is followed by the punctuated tip of Dorian’s hips against his thigh, and the sigh he lets out against his shoulder.

Everything feels covered in cotton. Thick, thick cotton.

In the haze Arlen realizes that Dorian is tense, fingers quaking gently around the elf’s. Arlen panics, trying to turn his head as Dorian is pulling his hand away from his skin to wipe against a rag hanging from his leather chair. _I’ve done something. Wrong? Fucking Mythal, I’ve done something and I don’t know what I’ve done._

But he realizes that Dorian goes back to him, once Arlen’s gotten his trousers in order and tunic back in place, and looks with eyes that are suddenly heavy. Arlen looks back, and for once he is speechless.

“My, I’m sorry. I was… I had been expecting you to leave.”

“Leave?” Arlen’s voice is small, even compared to how Dorian is speaking to him now. “I told you I wanted you to stay.”

“Something said in the throes of passion. We all lose ourselves. Unless you’re sure you meant it.” Dorian hesitantly, slowly, moves one hand to Arlen’s shoulder, the other pressing his palm to his cheek.

“I did.” The elf places one hand on the back of Dorian’s neck and guides him closer, until they’re touching lips as chastely as Arlen imagines devout Andrastians must kiss. Below them it seems the game of Wicked Grace is over, and those in the tavern are now slowly finding their own quarters.

Dorian pulls himself away from Arlen’s lips, tongue flicking out at his own top lip while he squeezes his eyes shut. “Then would it be too much to ask for us to go now, then?”

“Not at all, lethallin.”

Tomorrow, perhaps, when he can clearly see the sun come across on Dorian’s face, he’ll tell him exactly what lethallin means. Not the pragmatic dictionary definition, but the real meaning of it, with all its nuances.Perhaps, even, that there are words in his language that mean so much more, and that he’s willing to say them all to Dorian.

Dorian grasps his right hand again, tugs on it, and Arlen quickly follows.


End file.
